The Kiss Thief
by Creative Antiquity
Summary: A mysterious stalker has garnered world attention for stealing kisses from famous victims in embarrassing, public settings, and has announced that celebrity Arthur Kirkland is next! Can assistant Alfred Jones save his boss?  Full summary inside.
1. Prologue

**Full Summary: **A mysterious stalker has garnered world attention for stealthily stealing kisses from his famous victims in the most embarrassing, public settings and has announced through an online video that hot actor and singer Arthur Kirkland is next! To protect his boss, lovesick assistant Alfred F. Jones has sworn to keep Arthur's agenda an absolute secret. Much to Arthur's frustration, though, his new assistant Alfred is less of a hero and more of an epic fail…

**Disclaimer:** My fail drawing skills are proof enough that I do NOT own Hetalia, but just to play it safe!—Hetalia belongs to the amazing Hidekaz Himaruya. That is all.

**Prologue**

_Feliciano is still in therapy. __Taping canceled one more day. Tried to reach you, but your assistant said you didn't want to be disturbed. Later, brows. _

_-__Gilbert_

"Alfred—" Arthur Kirkland ripped the yellow sticky note from his door, groaning as he took off his glasses and walked into his dressing room, probably a bad idea given the way his left eye was twitching under the bright fluorescent lighting. A headache was the last thing he needed, but already his temples were beginning to throb, so he massaged them gently, his thumbs running soothing circles over the red skin above his thick eyebrows. "Alfred, didn't I tell you just this bloody morning not to screen my calls without my permission?"

The cheerful blue-eyed blonde perked up at the sound of his name, looking up from his messy three-ringed binder only to find that his boss was already taking off his jacket and throwing it on the divan near the refrigerator. He practically bounced into the room, closing the door behind him with a light kick from his heel. "Did ya say something, boss?" he tipped his head innocently, licking his finger quickly before flipping through the pages on his binder. "Need a reminder?"

"Never mind," the shorter man rolled his eyes, muttering under his breath.

Arthur didn't need an assistant. He scoffed, throwing himself on the divan with a flourish before grabbing for the refrigerator door, hoping to find something cold. Water. Preferably alcohol after the day he'd had, but he was pretty sure that Gilbert—his manager—had probably already found his stash and drank it all himself with the excuse that Arthur was a recovering alcoholic—_total lies, the bastard!_ But, yeah, Arthur didn't need an assistant. He had an excellent memory.

"Sure you don't need a reminder, boss?" blue eyes sparkled Arthur's way, making the lad look almost like a young school boy holding out a shiny red apple on the first day of school.

At this rate, Arthur was going to develop hypertension.

"No, Alfred, I don't need a bloody reminder. What I _do_ need you to _stop_ screening my calls! I could be home now instead of here…" He sighed, noting the way in which his assistant's face fell, looking almost like a kicked, dejected puppy thrown out into the rain. So he paused, waving him off, "Listen, uh, Alfred, let me explain a few things, only because I know this is your first job and all, but even when I say that I don't want to be disturbed, that doesn't apply to Gilbert, got it?"

"Got it, boss!" the young man nodded excitedly, beginning to scribble Arthur's words down, "_doesn't apply to Gilbert_. Wait, does it apply to the director, boss?"

"No, Alfred," Arthur let out a deep breath, the twitch now moving close to the edge of his lips.

"No for Mr. Bonnefoy, right, boss? I gave him his own ringtone—"

"NO, ALFRED, I'M AVA—Wait, no, yes, I am NEVER available for Mr. Bonnefoy." Arthur blinked, sitting up momentarily, "But I never told you to…" Slowly, he touched the side of his head. After two weeks, after two horrible weeks, Alfred F. Jones has finally done something right that didn't involve making a trip to McD*nalds or making Arthur a drink.

(A sad coincidence, really, that Alfred's only talent was the reason Arthur kept him around for another week: the lad had previously worked as a bartender.)

"Blimey, you actually did something right for a change, lad! Good job."

Alfred beamed. "Of course I did! I already told you I'm a total hero assistant, boss!"

_And then Alfred had to open his mouth and ruin it._

Arthur lay back down. His head lolled back and his hand stretched up, fingers waving in need of something, and immediately, his hearing was filled with the sound of rough movement and loud steps before he could feel the soft, rubber texture of his favorite stress ball shaped like a weird green rabbit with wings.

"Ah, Minty…" he sighed, giving in to the feel of tension leaving the stressed muscles on his arm. He cracked his neck. "Why can't an assistant be like a stress ball…?"

Alfred pouted, crossing his arms as he watched his boss practically curl his toes—not that he could tell with the angry little Brit wearing shoes and all, but he was sure underneath the leather barrier, Arthur Kirkland was deriving lots of pleasure from the stupid green ball. "Need 'nything else, boss?" he tried to sound cool, collected, almost smooth, but his voice only came out whiny, "anything…?"

"Just…" Arthur took in a deep breath, switching Minty to his other hand, "sit somewhere. And don't talk. At all."

Alfred nodded, taking a sit over by a sofa with a bunch of fluffed pillows. He poked them, trying to make more space for himself before opening his binder and sprawling it over his lap to doodle. The sound of pen scratching over the surface of the paper and plastic sliding over jeans was probably one of his favorite mixture of random everyday sounds, and he sat there, doodling with such concentration his pink tongue was beginning to peek out between his teeth.

"And don't move," Arthur's breath hitched.

Immediately, Alfred looked up, noticing that his boss was falling asleep. So, he pursed his lips, closing his binder rather loudly.

"I. Said. Don't. Move."

And Alfred stopped moving, simply shifting his eyes to keep himself entertained. But after a while, he found he was growing increasingly bored, and in his disappointment—because he had many moments like these during which he came to terms with the fact that the Arthur Kirkland in real life was nowhere near as cool as the characters he played on television—he began to sigh. Loudly and consistently, almost like a well-planned pattern of heaves.

"And don't breathe!"

Wait—but…

"Uh, boss…."

"Bloody hell, five minutes, Alfred, just five bleeding minutes and then you can pester me to your heart's damned content, alright?"

The young blonde puckered his lips into a pout until they were almost invisible, and he looked down at his hands, counting in his head by Mississippi's, as he had been taught like most American children in pre-school to adequately keep track of seconds. But somewhere around the 30th-Mississippi, he couldn't hold his breathe anymore and so took in one long gasping heave, which sent him into a fit of coughs so strong that it forced him to bend forward.

"Damn it, Alfred, I said!" Arthur's eyes widened at the sight of his assistant choking and he kicked his legs, rolling off the divan to try and reach the blue-eyed blonde as quickly as he could. "What were you doing now, you git?" he cursed, trying to lift the taller male's arms.

"I was—cough,cough—just doing-cough,hic,cough—as you—"

"Quit talking and just breathe through your nose. I sure as hell didn't tell you to choke, sodding twat! Just to stay quiet and not move for five minutes. FIVE MINUTES. Not even you have ants crawling all over yer arse so badly that you can't hold still, Alfred."

"I don't have ants!" slowly the younger man recovered, "And you told me to not breathe!"

"It's a figure of speech, you dolt!"

"How's I supposed to know when you were really expecting me not to move, huh?"

"It was all about trying to keep you quiet, but somehow last time I told you to just keep things quiet, you started humming the Mission Impossible theme song as you rolled all over my carpet!—To this day I have no bloody idea what you were trying to do!"

Alfred sheepishly bit his bottom lip, "you said my steps are like an elephant so I was trying to be a hero and, uh, not walk?"

Arthur palmed his forehead, slowly letting his fingers slide over his face. "Bloody hell, I need a new assistant, damn it!"

He could immediately feel the body next to him tense much more than he heard the gasp and far faster than he saw the other's bottom lip stick out and his bright blue eyes begin to melt into tears. Really. And almost immediately, he felt guilty. Really. Of all things…Arthur felt guilty.

Only two weeks ago, Alfred F. Jones had kicked his door down and announced that he was there to _save his agenda and all that stuff_ and then resumed to calling him _Iggy_ for the rest of the day and asking him to autograph a napkin. A greasy, disgusting napkin from McD*nalds. It was only after Arthur had threatened to fire him on the spot that Alfred had started calling him _boss_—because Mr. Kirkland was just _too boring_ for the American. And ever since two weeks ago, Alfred F. Jones had been nothing but an absolute failure as an assistant.

But Arthur had kept him around. Not just because of Alfred's bartending skills, no, but also because Alfred seemed fully intent on pleasing him, doing exactly as he said, no matter how ridiculous the demand. And, well, Arthur was sure he could find someone else like that—not that he needed an assistant—but there was something endearing about the stupidly foolish things Alfred Jones did to try and keep his boss happy. To keep Arthur happy.

"I told you after you almost poisoned Francis that you really shouldn't take everything I say so literally, Alfred," the older of the two sighed, his fingers cringing even as he stretched them out to pat at the lad's blonde hair. "There. There. Stop with the waterworks. Come now. Chin up. Stiff upper lip, now, Alfred."

"Wait, is this one of those times when you're being rhetorical again?"

"No. This time I'm really telling you to belt up! Be a man!"

"You're so mean, boss!" Alfred hid his face between his palms again, turning away from the green-eyed blonde.

"Bloody hell…" Arthur sighed.

Sometimes he really thought someone had it out for him.

Just then, though, Arthur's cellphone began to ring. Slowly, Alfred reached into his pocket, flipping it open to press against his ear, and with a cheerful smile—Arthur knew the lad was just being manipulative!—he chuckled out a quick, "Arthur Kirkland's phone, Alfred F. Jones, number one assistant speaking…"

Arthur would never understand why Alfred referred to himself as his number one assistant. He only had one. Regardless, he waited and watched as Alfred's brows furrowed and he nodded, becoming steely determined on focusing on the phone. He waved his boss aside, pushing through to grab for the laptop on the coffee table in front of the sofa.

"Yeah, thanks. We'll keep an eye on it. Bye now."

Arthur blinked, stretching his neck out, "who was it?"

"It was Birdie, Gilbert's assistant." He paused, flipping the laptop open, "She says I should really should you this."

"Show me what?"

Alfred ignored him, waiting as programs loaded on the computer.

"Alfred." Arthur tried to get his assistant's attention without success, "Show me what?"

The blonde typed quickly before turning the laptop to face his boss and pressing play. On the screen was the website of the _**Kissing-Thief**_, a new video loading. It amazed Arthur how famous the Kissing-Thief had become. Really, there was nothing impressive, much less amusing about a stalker, especially one with such a perfect record of success. His first victim had been Tino. Just as the blonde was walking out of his limousine onto the red carpet for the recent PAS-TV awards, a hooded stranger dressed in black from head to toe had almost like a shadow slipped past security, smacked him one right on the lips, and then made a quick getaway into a crowd of overly excitable fans.

In his shock, Tino had fallen butt first into the open window of the limousine behind him, leaving him bright red and embarrassed as paparazzi flashed pictures of him with his legs outstretched, his airs flailing as he tried to pry himself off the limousine.

Arthur wasn't sure how, but the Kissing-Thief was practically a celebrity. Police officers couldn't trace him. His identity was unknown. Well, they thought he was a he… no reason why it couldn't be a female, though. Even with his website, it was impossible to predict when or how the kiss would happen. All anyone knew—and to paparazzi's delight—was that a video would appear from time to time with the name of a new celebrity. And, usually, by the end of the week, the Kissing-Thief would get his kiss. In front of paparazzi, in front of crowds, usually causing deep embarrassments for his victims.

And so far, well, Arthur had been Kissing-Thief free.

But Arthur didn't need to watch the video to know that his time out of the Kissing-Thief limelight was over.

Above the video, on the title, was his name.

He blanched, reading the words slowly, feeling them flash over and over in his mind: _Victim # 10 - Arthur Kirkland: Hey sexy brows… you're next._ He felt his knees buckle, and before he could stop himself, he felt right on top of his assistant's lap.

A pair of strong arms embraced his waist, and in his panic, he settled his hands on the other's broad shoulders, watching the last couple of seconds of the video. Wait, when had it started playing?

"…So, yeah, hot stuff, tell your sexy eyebrows to expect a kiss from the Kissing-Thief sometime soon. _Cheerio_, love! Hahaha…"

Alfred was frowning. Arthur could feel it. And as the laptop was closed, he blushed a bright red, beginning to disengage himself from his assistant's arms. He cleared his throat. "Well."

"Don't you worry boss!" Alfred stood up almost immediately, a twinkle shining in his eyes as he gave him a thumbs up, "That's why you hired a hero!"

"What the hell are you going on about now?"

"Easy! He can't kiss ya if he doesn't know how to reach you, duh! It's a fool-proof plan, boss. I just gotta protect your agenda real good!"

"Brilliant!" Arthur nodded, giving him a bright smile.

Wait. He stopped, blinking for a moment before the horror of his assistant's constant failures dawned on him. With Alfred guarding his agenda, he'd be kissed in no time!

Arthur let out a gasping breath, and then a scream, "Nooooooooooooooo!"

**Author Note:**If you like it, then please review? If you don't like t, then, also review and tell me why...? Please…? The more reviews, the faster I update. Also, I don't have a BETA. If anyone is interested, please let me know. I'd love to make this story as good as possible.


	2. Chapter 1

**Author Note: **Wow, thanks to everyone that has put this story on their alert list (20 of you) and their favorites list (6 of you)! Really, it means a lot to me! Hopefully you will be encouraged to review at some point as well, unless my fail writing scares you off, but let's hope that doesn't happen! **To everyone that has reviewed, thank you so much!** I promise I will write back very soon! I'm in the middle of exams so I'm taking some free time to distress by writing, but given my influx of work, I find that the choice has been write or reply. You're all amazing, though, and your reviews make me smile… and, as you can see, update! =D This one is short, but the next one will be very long. Sorry about that.

**Disclaimer: ** Ahem, I do not own Hetalia. I'm just a fan and this is my fiction.

**Chapter 1**

Alfred stuffed more popcorn into his mouth, munching happily as his eyes scanned over the pages of his boss's brand new script. Feliciano, their Italian star, had yet to return from his now week-long self-imposed exile—the one he'd been on ever since the Kissing-Thief had defiled his virgin lips in front of millions, forcing his beloved bodyguard Ludwig to quit his job from shame (because, really, everyone knew that Feliciano would have never have fired Ludwig, not even after the spectacle caught on camera last week). It really was sort of a shame that Feliciano wasn't out of therapy yet, but Alfred had to admit that it had its perks, too. For one, it meant that he got to spend plenty of time just watching Arthur croon and pucker his lips in front of a microphone. And Alfred _did_ love his boss's voice. _Oh yeah_.

Alas, breaks had to end. And Arthur Kirkland wasn't the type of man to accept payment without delivery, so the angry Brit had stomped into his manager's office last night after a couple of drinks and demanded—_like a badass diva, hell yeah!_—that a new script be made just in case Feliciano still refused to return by the morning. So there it was: the new script, all shiny and freshly printed, still smelling like hot ink and now popcorn butter.

Yeah. Being Arthur Kirkland's assistant had its perks—like getting to read the script and knowing all the good spoilers before the new episode to his soap opera came out. Maybe Alfred would have appreciated it more if his boss was playing the part of an awesome secret agent like his last two movies, or even the part of a -with-more-aliens-in-the-plot type of character, but Alfred wasn't picky. At least not when he was bored. So even if his boss was playing a lame lovesick businessman caught in a cheesy love triangle for some ridiculously over budgeted soap opera, well, like a good little fan, Alfred was going to read the script and pretend he liked it.

If anything, he'd be prepared for any love scenes. Because if there was anything Alfred could say was that his boss played a killer seducer. And seeing his boss with his shirt off made up for the lame minimum wage.

**ANNOUNCER:**

_And today on __**The Mad and the Reckless**__… a sudden hit-and-run accident has left Feliciano in a comma, and Liz begins to come to terms with her feelings!—Too bad her fiancé Arthur has returned from his mysterious trip to France. Will Liz choose Feliciano? Or will she stay with Arthur, even though he seems to be hiding a deep secret? Find out… next._

**FRANCIS**

Mais, mon amour…

(He stops Arthur, lightly holding on to his arm to try and tug him back into the room. His blue eyes silently whisper his longing.)

**ARTHUR**

It's over, Francis.

(Slowly, he disengages from the touch, pushing the Frenchman away.)

I'm with Liz now, and I…

(Suspenseful pause. Bites bottom lip.)

… I love her. And I'm going to marry her. And start a family. What happened in France during my drunken college years just –she can't know about it, you understand?

**FRANCIS**

I do not believe you! You are a liar, Arthur! There's no way that you could have moved on… we were happy, you and I, in Pari'. Do you not remember all the wonderful mornings of passionate love—

(He flinches when Arthur shoves him back into the apartment. The door slams closed and he jumps, surprised.)

**ARTHUR**

I've told you to stop talking about it.

(His eyes flash in anger.)

There could've been people walking out in the hallway. Now, understand one thing, and one thing alone: I am with Liz. I love her. You're nothing but a mistake from the past. And the only reason I'm here… is for those pictures. And now that I have them, well, I'm done with you.

(He brushes his shoulders before pursing his lips together and opening the door.)

Goodbye, Francis.

(He slams the door behind him.)

**FRANCIS**

Arthur…

(He closes his eyes, taking a long, deep gulp to showcase his sadness. Then, he falls to his knees with a choking sob.)

Arthur—!

**ARTHUR**

(Bites his bottom lip as he presses his back against the door. A few neighbors walk in front of him, giving him concerned looks, but he simply puts on his sunglasses, giving the door one last lingering look before glancing at his shoes and taking quick steps over to the elevator.)

I'm sorry, Francis.

Alfred blinked, staring at the page. _The hell? _So it was a pretty predictable plotline. Only a month and a half or so into the show, and everyone had been able to figure out that: 1) Feliciano and Liz were probably going to end up together, and 2) That the reason Arthur went to France was because Francis had embarrassing photos from their past. The third fact… that, well, Arthur was probably a closeted gay… predictable as well. But, still, Alfred hadn't expected the soap opera to be such absolute crap!

Arthur and Francis had no real chemistry on television. Half the time, his boss looked like he wanted to take the Frenchman's face and slam it to the ground. The beauty of the Arthur Britannia and Francis Dijoun's relationship—_really, could they have chosen more stupid names for them?—_was that there was a deep, smoldering, hidden passion well hidden behind Arthur B.'s attempts at normalcy and Francis D.'s naiveté. Problem was that Francis Bonnefoy was as naïve as a hooker and Arthur Kirkland was as passionate towards the Frenchman as a psychopath was towards his victim.

"Ah, _Amerique_, reading the script again, I see…"

That nickname. That could only mean…

Alfred jumped, looking up to find Francis looming over him. "Oh, hey, Mr. Bonnefoy," he replied, sitting up straight on his chair, "looks like your character's finally getting some more air time, huh?"

"Oui, oui, it's 'bout ze time, if you ask me," the blonde replied, running his fingers through his hair, "and where is Arthur? Shouldn't 'e be ze one reading _le manuscript_?"

"Ah, yeah, I just…" Alfred flushed a deep red, looking down at the paper in his hand, "he lets me have them after he memorizes them. And since he has photographic memory having been an English major and all that…"

"Hmm," the other male hummed, sitting on the seat next to him and propping his elbow on the chair's arm to get close to Alfred until their noses almost touched. Alfred jumped, almost falling off the chair, "ah, l'amour, l'amour, l'amour! To be young like you again and have a crush on a famous person and take on minimum wage jobs to get close to them… ah, l'amour…"

Alfred's eyes widened, "W—what?"

"I, too, once chased after stars," Francis smiled, giving him a wink, "'til I became one, sûrement."

"I—I'm not doing this job just 'cause I have a crush on Artie—I mean, Mr. Kirkland…. T—that's a total lie! And if you ever bring it up in front of him, I'll totally deny it and tell him you're just being your pervy, frog-tastic self."

"_Mon what_?" the star screeched.

"Oi, frog, the hell are you doing perving on my assistant again, eh? I thought I already told you to keep your bloody hands off him. Wanker." Alfred simply watched as his boss punched the Frenchman on the forehead before grabbing Alfred's wrist and pulling him off the chair. "And you, I've told you that he's a sexual harassment suit waiting to happen," he huffed, rolling his eyes, "I can't keep saving you all the time, lad."

"My nose… I think you broke it!"

"Don't be ridiculous," the Brit scoffed, "I only punched you on the forehead, idiot."

"Uh, boss, his nose is sort of bleeding, though…"

"Not my fault. Lord knows what types of perverted thoughts are making him hemorrhage. Now you, shouldn't you be protecting my agenda with your life?"

"Ah, right!"

"So…?" Arthur tapped his foot on the ground, lifting a thick eyebrow. "Where is it?"

"Oh, right…" Alfred looked down at his hands, then around, taking a few quick spins as he looked for his binder. _Shit._ Oh, wait. He leaned down and grabbed it from behind the chair, chuckling, "Right here, boss!"

"Is that it?" Arthur asked, extending his palm to take the binder.

"Yeah, all in there."

"Well?"

"Well, what?"

"Give it to me, git…"

Alfred clutched the binder close to his chest, "No can do, boss!"

"And why ever not?"

"'Cause, if you get drunk, then you could go 'round telling someone and then the agenda is no longer secret!" the young, blue-eyed blonde beamed, giving him a heroic grin as if he had it all figured out.

Arthur slapped the back of his head.

"Ouch!" Alfred dropped the binder, hiding his head with his arms. "Boss, you're so mean!"

"Sacré bleu! Arthur, you have ze anger management problems, non?"

"Shut it, frog… I'm a gentleman," the Brit sneered, turning to his assistant, "Idiot! If I don't know my agenda then that defeats the point of it being _my_ agenda!" Arthur leaned down, grabbing the binder and flipping through it.

"No! You can't do that, boss!"

"Stop tugging at it, you damn wanker! I'm your boss! Alfred, let go!"

"Now I have to cancel all your appointments!" Alfred kept tugging, finally ripping the binder in half.

The two males watched in shock as each of them held a piece of the binder in their hands.

Arthur blinked, a shade of light pink dusting his cheeks from embarrassment as his eyes turned towards Alfred, who seemed to have fallen into a state of catatonia. A part of him swore that he could hear the young blonde whisper in despair, "my binder…"

"I told you not to tug at it," the green-eyed star pursed his lips, throwing the binder back at Alfred before clearing his throat and fixing his tie. "I—I suppose," he sighed, bringing out his wallet to hand the young man his credit card, "I ought to give you this so that you can go and buy a new one. Pray have it back by 5, will you? I need to have it for my date with Priya tonight."

Alfred's eyes widened, and he dropped the binder, "T—the Indian chick?"

"Ay, the India—that's Miss Gupta to you. How many times must I remind you not to randomly go calling people by their first name? Alfred, even you can grasp that, can't you?"

"S—sorry," the American looked down, scratching the back of his neck before shakily taking the credit card from his boss's hand. "T—that wasn't in your agenda…" he whispered.

Arthur sighed, "of course it wasn't. That's personal. There's no need for it to be on my agenda."

Green eyes settled on the French figure now hiding behind one of the set chairs. Francis seemed to be taking in the scene, biting a handkerchief as if he was watching a heart-wrenching movie scene. _Leave it to the frog to make such a drama out of a broken binder._

"You can't do that!" Alfred yelled, his bright eyes resembling crystals as he bit his bottom lip, trying to keep from pouting. "You can't just go dating people and not tell me!"

Two weeks. For two weeks he'd been hanging around Arthur Kirkland all damn day, making him drinks, sometimes even picking up his laundry. How could his boss be so stupid? Alfred furrowed his brows together, trying to keep himself from bursting into a bright shade of red, but already he could feel heat snaking around the back of his neck.

"I beg your pardon?"

_Shit._

"Uh…"

_Did… I just yell at my boss?_

"Alfred, I'm going to pretend that—"

"I mean, I mean, you can't do that because I'm supposed to know where you are so I can protect you from the—the Kissing-Thief, duh!"

Arthur Kirkland tilted his head, "Curious, but smart. I see your point, lad. Very well. I suppose you have a fair point there." He paused. "I'm going out with Miss Gupta this evening and I expect my credit card returned by five with my _new_ agenda, then." He turned on his heel, slowly looking over his shoulder and sneering, "Frog, I'll see you in five for our scene."

"Ah, oui," Francis nodded, folding his hands together as he stood, "oh, Arthur, cher?"

"What?"

"L'amour weeps because of you," he stated dramatically, biting his handkerchief again before somehow making a quick disappearance.

"The hell was that?"

Alfred turned a bright shade of red, "ha, ha, ha… I, uh, haha… just Mr. Bonnefoy being his froggy perverted self, sir?"

Arthur smirked, "ha, guess you're probably right. Have my card back soon, savvy? Cheerio, love."

_Love_. Damn it. Alfred nodded, holding onto the card with both hands, flushing a bright red. _Cheerio, love._

"Of course the bastard would say that," he muttered under his breathe, picking up the pieces of his binder before stuffing the card into his jacket. "I get _Cheerio, Love_ but I'm sure Miss Gupta gets the—" he tensed when he felt a pair of cold hands settled on his shoulders, pulling him back.

"Ah, l'amour… just like in ze movies… the young, valiant hero and his unrequited love. Oh _la tragedie_!" Francis cried out behind him before moving away, still clutching tight to his handkerchief.

Alfred jumped, dropping his binder again. "Damn he's creepy sometimes!"

So, Alfred was probably going to get fired. But Arthur was sure that he'd forget all about that tomorrow when he saw the young, bubbly, smiling face of the American carrying his favorite tea and his credit card. He should've known that Alfred would forget to bring his credit card back by five. But, then, again, he'd left early—more around 3pm—so he couldn't blame Alfred, right? Right.

"Name?" the young hostess sighed into her palm, circling randomly with her black pen over a long list of names.

"Arthur Kirkland. Or, actually, no, mind searching for a Miss Priya Gupta?"

Immediately, she looked up, almost squealing, "A—Arthur… THE Arthur Kirkland? Oh my gosh!"

He gave her an uncomfortable smile, trying to look away so as not to call attention to himself as a few other people began to notice him.

"Oh my gosh! Mr. Kirkland, I am such a huge fan!"

"Lower your voice…" he murmured, leaning closer.

"Oh, right…" she giggled into her hand, slipping a napkin and a pen his way, "I love _The Mad and the Reckless. _Could you sign this for me?"

He nodded, chuckling uncomfortably, "of course, yes, just please find the name Priya Gupta on that list… I forgot I made the reservations under her name."

She blinked, her high ponytail bouncing, "Model Priya Gupta? OH MY GOSH!"

In her excitement, the girl knocked over an entire stack of menus, sending them falling to the ground.

Arthur sighed into his palm, shaking his head. Sometimes, he really missed his vacation. He wasn't cut out for being famous. Really, he should just quiet and return to his nice little cottage in England, maybe get his doctorate from Oxford and go onto become an academic. To hell with music and acting and girls and booze. All the fuss wasn't worth it. He pointed at the list with his chin.

"How about it, Priya Gupta in there?" he asked, scribbling his name on the napkin.

"Oh, right!"

"Hey, boss! Over here!"

Arthur looked up, frowning. _Alfred? What's that wanker doing here?_

Indeed it was Alfred, all dressed up in a crisp black suit. Arthur made a double-take. So the American did own something other than jeans and shirts and that ridiculous bomber jacket. And he looked good in the get-up. Alfred, surprisingly, could look the part of a gentleman.

The hostess turned around as well, blinking. "Is that gentleman bothering you, sir?"

"No," Arthur sighed, "That's just my assistant. I suppose I'll find Priya myself. May I…?"

"Oh, of course…" she nodded, grabbing a menu to follow behind him, but he held his hand up, stopping her with a smile.

"I'll take it from here."

A few people in the room stared at him, but he was sure his disguise was genius enough. Nobody would recognize him with his hair slicked back, a little ringlet made to stand out on the side like some deranged curl. And the suit. Arthur Kirkland would never be seen in a light blue suit. He had more style than that. But still he covered his face, keeping his sunglasses tight over his eyes.

When he made it to the table, he motioned for Alfred to sit down.

"What the bloody hell are you doing here?" he hissed out, still covering his face as he leaned across the table.

The American beamed, bringing out the Brit's cellphone. "I have this, remember, boss? Oh, and this, too."

He set the credit card on the table, giving him a little grin.

"Wonderful. That doesn't explain why you're here."

"Oh, well, see, boss, Miss Priya called and said she couldn't make it. Soooo, since I had your phone, I just figured I'd come by and drop it off instead of letting you think she stood you up."

"And you dressed up for it?"

Not that Arthur had any complaints. None, really. Only because he didn't want to be embarrassed for being seen with a jean-wearing American at a five-star restaurant.

"Even I know you can't go somewhere this fancy in jeans, boss."

"Well, I suppose since you're here, and since I'm starving, we might as well have dinner and you can go over my agenda," Arthur sighed, almost annoyed.

"Seriously, boss?"

The Brit simply nodded, waving him off. "Yes, well, you did go through the trouble…"

"Awesome!" Alfred grinned, looking almost like a young child with candy.

"Just…" Arthur sighed in disappointment, "let me go to the bathroom. In my excitement to get here fast I completely bypassed an opportunity to go earlier." He stood up, pausing before leaving, "Look over the menu while I'm gone, and, please, do not open your mouth and say that you are here with me."

"Sure thing, boss!" the American gave Arthur a thumbs up, waving at him even as he shook his head.

Alfred chuckled, sitting back on his chair. The phone in front of him vibrated. Scanning the area, he noted his boss was gone, and, carefully, he slipped the phone open, smiling when his eyes fell on the text.

**Priya Gupta**

FEB 27 8:06PM

_No need to apologize, Arthur. I completely understand. We'll reschedule. Maybe Indian food at my place next week? I'll cook.__-Love, Priya._

Licking his lips, the blonde simply leaned forward, typing away.

**Arthur Kirkland**

FEB 27 8:07PM

_Thanks for being so understanding, love. Next week is awful busy, but I'll be sure to let my assistant know to tell me of an opening in my agenda. Cheerio. __Arthur. _

And with that, he closed the phone, though not before setting it to silent. Sometimes being an assistant had its perks. Full access to Arthur Kirkland's phone was just one of them, really.


	3. Chapter 2

**Author Note: **Ahem, I am now officially free! Thus, here is chapter 2. I'm so incredibly happy with the amazing responses I have received thus far from ALL of you. =) There are many of you that review (please, review…. You're allowed to do so even if anonymously…) and put this in your favorites and alerts list and it just makes me so incredibly happy! I'm trying to get around to your reviews so if I haven't answered it by the time you comment for chapter 2, you're likely to just receive one big message – unless you want one for each of your individual comments. Let me know. I'm friendly and sociable and I like to write a lot anyway, haha.

**Some things… **_**the Indian chick is supposed to represent India.**_** Since I'm not aware of her being an official character, I just gave her a name. India used to be the "jewel in the crown of the British Empire" so I figured, maybe Arthur would find himself fascinated by her… not in love, just fascinated. **This story has a US/UK/US pairing so please don't think that's going to change.

**EDIT: Sorry, I forgot that the dividers don't upload. Sigh. If you read it before the divider lines were put up, sorry!**

**Disclaimer: **Hetalia is not mine. It's too awesome to be mine.

**Chapter 2**

**_That night…_**

Alfred F. Jones was in love. With his food.

He's aware of the fact that he has ordered what is likely to be the most expensive burger he'll ever have in his life—mostly because he is in a five star restaurant and Arthur Kirkland told him to order anything he wanted. And by _anything_, well, Arthur wasn't kidding. So when Alfred had stayed demurely silent staring at the menu, his boss had sighed exasperatedly before whispering in the hostess's ear.

There were many perks to being famous. Alfred knew that. He never imagined there would be perks to dating a famous person, too. Only, the date was only happening in his imagination, but the burger on his plate was plenty real. He could deal with reality later.

"Are you enjoying your burger, Alfred?" Arthur asked, propping his chin on his hands as he leaned forward over the table. His position spoke of interest, but the way his voice lilted and his eyes dimmed as they fell on every other table except on Alfred, well, the American was sure that his boss was growing tired of being there with him.

"It's great," Alfred gulped down a large piece of burger, giving his boss a beaming smile, "You're not going to eat anything boss?"

"Oh." Arthur's cheeks tint a lovely light pink, and Alfred is tempted to run his thumb over the skin, just to feel if it burns. "No. No. I'm fine with my tea," the British star replies, letting his index finger run smooth circles across the silver tinted top of the cup.

When he was five, Alfred was in love with his grandmother's china set. Not because he actually liked china, no, just because he liked how smooth it felt against his fingers as it slid across his skin. He loved the way the coolness of the material seeped into his warm skin. Looking at Arthur'sface, Alfred thinks of a china teacup—the now prominent red on his cheeks the equivalent of tiny hand painted rosebuds.

Sometimes his boss's skin reminds him of porcelain. But porcelain is cool to the touch, much like the virgin forest green of Arthur's eyes. Alfred likes to imagine that Arthur is warm, like a little furnace, and he lets his fanboy side escape for a moment as he set his burger down and bites his bottom lip. Arthur is only slightly shorter than himself, but he's got an elegant built.

"What are you staring at?" Arthur hisses out, grabbing his teacup and turning away in a huff. "Git."

"Huh?" Alfred awakens from his momentary lull, looking back down at his food. He takes a quick bite, letting the taste of ketchup and mustard mix together. But his eyelashes curl upwards from time to time, and he steals peeks at the refined gentleman.

Arthur Kirkland isn't effeminate. He's not small per say, just slim. He's not beautiful; he's handsome—in a peculiar way that makes Alfred think of royalty, Sherlock Holmes and James Bond all wrapped up in one. And he likes that. _Very Much._

"You, like, exhale class, huh, boss?" Alfred jokes, grinning like a fool when he notes that the Brit is now staring straight up him. His green eyes are wide, almost competing with the prominent brows, and the little shade of pink slowly returns. "Seriously. Like, everything you do is just classy." He fumbles with his hands, trying to unwrap a cloth napkin to dab at his mouth, but instead he wipes at it. "I wish I could be like that sometimes, ya know?—Look like I have a stick up my ass have the time."

His boss frowns.

"That's a compliment!"

"Just eat your bloody hamburger so we can go," the older of the two replies, wiping his mouth delicately before signaling for the check.

There's a long silence. It drifts through the air, hangs there, and begins to choke Alfred. Mostly because if Alfred F. Jones is in love with his food, then he must be in _something_ far greater with Arthur Kirkland. Silently, in his head, as he's chewing over a particular large piece of meat, he can admit to himself that he really likes his boss; he can admit that what he's doing is a little crazy, and yet, he can't stop.

"I—I…"

A large eyebrows arches and bright green eyes stare right at him. "You?" he sighs into his hand, his attention beginning to drift again.

Arthur Kirkland is disappointed. He admits that lately, he finds that he's keeping Alfred around just because the lad makes good eye-candy. It used to be because Alfred—even in his moments of stupidity—could make him laugh, but now he's beginning to understand that he probably laughed because the lad was a pretty good bartender and alcohol makes anything amusing after a few shots. But he knows Alfred is a good conversationalist. He knows because when Arthur is drunk, which is sadly too often, and feels free and falling, Alfred can talk him into soberness.

Dinner so far, though, has been a failure. And now the lad is stuttering. He just needs a new assistant.

"I got a Bachelors of Science in Engineering," Alfred finishes, setting his hamburger down.

Now Arthur Kirkland is impressed. He wonders if it shows on his face.

"Yeah," Alfred laughs, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. "I know you probably don't think I'm all that smart and stuff because you're so classy and everything. And I know I haven't been the best assistant, but that's 'cause I'm not used to it, ya know?"

"Then why are you working as an assistant? You could make far more money working as an engineer, you know."

"I know," Alfred shrugs, taking another bite out of his burger, "but my gpa was kind of bad. Even for an Engineering major. I had a perfect gpa in my department, just, uh, let's say that English Literature and Philosophy weren't too kind to me."

"Sir, your check…"

Arthur doesn't tear his gaze away from Alfred. He grabs for the check, murmuring his thanks before shoving his credit card into the woman's hand, not even bothering to look at the price tag. In Alfred's eyes, that's pretty badass—_wonder how many girls he's impressed like that.._.

A part of Alfred feels proud—incredibly proud—because he finally has the other's attention. His heart is buzzing, or singing, or something equally ridiculous, but he's _really, really, really happy_. If he can just keep stretching the night out a little more. Just a little more.

"It's surprising how I can see you as being good at something like that," Arthur admits, looking a bit peeved that he has to. Alfred knows Arthur has his moments. This is one of them. It's not long before the brows furrow together and the Brit frowns, "I still don't see why you would choose to work as an assistant earning minimum wage. You could have found a job, I'm sure. Engineers have that marketability."

"Hey, it's not like I'm not going to be an engineer someday!—'Sides, you're not actually doing what you went to college for, right?"

Arthur nods, biting his bottom lip. "Well, I dropped out," he whispers, almost ashamed.

Alfred sits up, leaning in. The ridiculous ahoge he can never get to cooperate in the mornings bounces in his excitement. The burger is forgotten for a moment, but so is Arthur's tea. "Huh? You're kidding! I thought you graduated with a degree in economics from Oxford…"

"I—I… I was supposed to return to school after I finished filming," Arthur whispers, but soon grows flustered. "How the bloody hell did you know that?—Did that bastard Gilbert tell you that? He likes to rub in my face that he actually did return to school. Bloody bastard. I would, too, if my career collapsed and I was in need of a job. It's not like he did something impressive either. Sodding business management! Ha!" He stops, and he licks his lips, suddenly growing uncomfortable. "Nothing like… engineering…"

"Haha, you have a thing for smart guys, huh?"

"What? I—I don't know what the bloody hell you're talking about…"

"All day you're _git this _and _git that_, or _bloody wanker_, and now I'm awesomer than Gilbert? Awesome!"

"First off, awesomer is not a word. Second, everyone is more awesome than that idiot…"

Alfred pokes at his burger with his unused fork. "Then why ya keep him around?"

"Because he has his moments of competence. And he also has so much dirt on me that I'm sure if I ever fired him he'd release everything to some tabloid."

"Dude, that's horrible!"

Arthur sighs, shaking his head, "welcome to my life…"

Alfred frowns, "do people take advantage of you a lot?"

"My last assistant was some damn maniac that harbored this obsessive crush on me." Arthur purses his lips, shuddering at the memory. He could in the back of his mind still remember walking into his assistant's apartment one evening only to find a pair of his missing socks hanging over some insane looking voodoo ritual. Not that missing socks was the worst. A pair of his boxers was later found as well. Inside a closet that housed a crazy number of pictures of Arthur. None of which he had been able to recover. "The wanker took on the job only to stalk me," Arthur takes his credit card from the hostess as she appears next to him.

Once she has the signed paper in her possession, she beams. "Thank you. Have a good evening, both of you."

When Arthur turns to look at Alfred, he notes that his assistant is now a bright shade of red—a quivering mess, really, with shoulders tensed and the most horrified expression on his face. He simply blinks. "I know, I know, ridiculous, right? He was plenty competent, though," Arthur shrugged, "just a bit of a kleptomaniac with my things. Are you finished, lad?"

Alfred nods. He nods in jerking movements, short and frightened. "M—may I," his voice squeaks, but he recovers, "ahem, I mean, bathroom…?"

"Oh, that direction over there; the bill is paid for so I should probably take my leave, unless you'd like a ride? Did you bring a taxi or…?"

"Oh, I walked… my apartment is just a few blocks from here," Alfred stands up, his legs still feeling like gelatin. His plan really had been brilliant, but now he has to wonder what Arthur would say if he ever found out Alfred owns like every single DVD that has ever come out for an Arthur Kirkland movie. After all, he had to lie to get the job—he had to say he wasn't a fan.

_That I'd never even seen Arthur Kirkland in a picture._

Now it all made sense.

"So, then," Arthur stood, stretching out his hand, "This was… pleasant…"

Alfred took his boss's hand. _Warm_. Definitely warm to the touch. And _soft_.

"Ahem, you can let go, Alfred," Arthur chuckled, giving his assistant a smile. "I will see you tomorrow. I presume you're keeping my schedule safe?"

"With my life!" Alfred smiled, patting his chest. "Right here, next to my heart."

"Oh," Arthur blushed, shaking his head, "night lad. Have a safe walk home."

"Thanks, boss. Later!"

"Yes, la—"

"Mr. Kirkland! Excuse me, sir," a waiter ran up to him, holding a folded piece of paper. Almost immediately, Arthur took it, bringing out a pen from his pocket. "Oh, no, sir. It's a delivery. Your hostess said a gentleman handed it to her earlier this evening."

"Oh, thank you."

He unfolded the note, stretching it out over his hands.

_Hey sexy brows—careful on your way home tonight. _

_-KT_

The paper fell from his hands as he jumped, shaking. "H—He…"

Alfred raised an eyebrow, leaning down to pick up the paper. His eyes scanned the sentence carefully before looking around the room. When he didn't seem to see anyone suspicious, he pocketed the note, grabbing his boss's jacket from the chair to drape it over his shoulders.

Quivering green eyes stared at him. "How… I don't… No one knew about this…"

"Come on boss," Alfred sighed, wrapping his arm around the other blonde's defined waist only to pull him closer to his chest.

The warmth of a larger body enveloped Arthur, and he looked at his assistant, never really having seen him look so serious. And though he had a mind to hit the young man and remind him that they were in public and that the way he was holding him was by no means appropriate for a boss-assistant relationship, a bigger part of him kept him on the alert, and he excused his moment of weakness by simply reminding himself that if the Kissing Thief came close to him, well, he could throw Alfred at him.

Sure, it wouldn't be brave. It wouldn't be heroic. But Arthur Kirkland was the type of man that embarrassed easily. He'd be damned if someone called the Kissing Thief was going to be kissing him and embarrassing him in public!

That's what he had an assistant for.

Besides, Alfred liked to think of himself as a hero anyway, right?

* * *

><p>"You can let go of me now," Arthur grumbled, trying to squirm away from his assistant's strong grip.<p>

The American jumped at the sound of Arthur's voice, almost dropping his apartment keys as he pushed the door open. The tense lines around his face eased into a chipper smile as his arm eased away from the other's waist. With a boyish grin, he added, "ah, right. Guess I took my job as bodyguard a bit too serious, haha."

"Annoying, git," Arthur rolled his eyes, taking slow steps around Alfred's apartment. When his foot hit something, he stopped, cringing almost immediately at the sight of a stack of comic books lying about. The tower slid to the ground, calling attention to the pizza box underneath. "Do you ever clean?"

"Yeah, just vacuum the place last week!"

"Obviously not well… there's lint everywhere," Arthur huffed, setting his hands on his hips as he eyed the room with scrutiny.

Really, it was a typical bachelor pad on a budget. Big screen television mounted on the wall, a lonely leather sofa near a large coffee table filled with stacks of old physics books and theoretical mathematics and comic books. Except for the lint littering the carpet and the pizza box on the ground, the place was decently clean. But Arthur Kirkland needed something to do, something to focus on, so he rolled his sleeves up, bending down to grab the stack of comic books. "Here, give me a hand with this."

Alfred rushed towards his boss, "Woah, no need to clean! You're my guest! – Hey! I said I'll do it!"

"Like hell you will," the Englishman rolled his eyes, dumping the comic books on the other's arms, "if you didn't do it before, I highly doubt you'll do it now, and I most certainly will _not_ be sleeping on _that _couch with pizza boxes and comic books littering the floor. I refuse. Now, where's your trashcan?"

"Uh, y—you're staying here?"

"I can't be wondering the streets this late, can I? Not with that maniac knowing my schedule. You and I need to rehash my entire day!"

Alfred's face turned a bright pink as he dropped the comic books, pointing at the ground, "here, here? Like, in my apartment? With me?"

Arthur winced, "yes, here, with you, unless… Alfred, are you kicking me out?"

"NO! No, no! I just… here…?"

"You sound like you've never had a guest in your life. Chin up lad. It's not like I'm taking over your bedroom, or anything. I'll just need a blanket and your sofa. Or the ground. Given that you vacuum it appropriately," he shrugged, turning on his heels to reorganize the stack of DVDs left on the floor near a game console. "If that's settled, then pick those up while I organize this."

_M—my collection…_

"Uh, Artie, wait!"

The blue-eyed blonde dashed in front of his guest, practically throwing himself over the DVDs. He could feel them digging into his ribs, but he held them close, hugging them to lift them off the ground. "I, uh, I got this, why don't you just go make yourself some coffee or something? The kitchen is done that way."

"I hate coffee."

His assistant's jaw dropped.

"How can you hate coffee?—It's like miraculous or something! I survived my whole last year of college on coffee!"

"I find it bitter. But I'll take some tea if you have some."

"Yeah, well, tea is always bland… at last coffee is only bitter if you don't put lots of sugar in it."

"Well, I think it's gross. Like car oil or something equally disgusting."

"Yeah, well," Alfred huffed, pouting as he looked at the DVDs in his hand, "tea is bland and gross, too!"

"Why! I ought to fire you for such blasphemy!"

"Just go find something to drink!"

Pink lips pursed tight together as green eyes narrowed. "Fine… but I doubt I'll find anything worthwhile in your kitchen, anyway."' With a _hmph_ he left in search of the kitchen, turning around only momentarily to give his assistant an angry pout.

Oh, Alfred would be having dreams about that puckered mouth. But right now he had other things to worry about. Like the fact that in his arms he had probably about 5 to 8 DVDs with the words Arthur Kirkland printed somewhere on the cover. And he was sure he had a poster somewhere in his bedroom. _Damn it!_ He trotted down the hallway, tumbling along the way as he tried to balance the stacks of DVDs in his arms. As he passed by the kitchen, he noticed that Arthur was staring at him so he gave him a nod.

"All good here! Find something?"

Before his boss could answer, though, he had already made it to the end of the hallway. He opened the door slowly, using his chin to hold some of the weight in his arms in place.

"Need help?"

"Ah!" He threw the DVDs into the room, closing the door behind him. With his back slammed against the door, Alfred bit his bottom lip, "nope. Eve—everything is good here!"

"Looks like you missed one," Arthur murmured, bending down to pick up a leftover DVD near Alfred's foot. The younger of the two looked down, freezing up almost immediately as his boss scanned the words on the cover. "Alfred… is this…?"

The American closed his eyes, trying to hold his breathe.

"…Dr. Who?"

Immediately, he relaxed, letting out a sudden breathe.

"Haha, yeah, I, uh, guess it is, Dr. Who! It's an awesome show; I'm a huge fan!"

Arthur nodded, his eyes sparkling as his thumbs brushed over the anthology. "It's one of the older series. Tom Baker is probably my third favorite Doctor," the smaller blonde smiled.

It was the first time Alfred had seen his boss genuinely smile. Certainly a beautiful smile—bright, honest, a bit whimsical even. "You know, you'd make a great Doctor…" he murmured, unaware of the fact that he was talking anymore. Was this real? Was Arthur _friggin'_ Kirkland really in his house, thumbing and rubbing his Dr. Who DVD?—Somehow Alfred thought that no one should look that good caressing a DVD. Really, it was almost obscene. Well, only in his imagination, really, but, again, he could _deal with reality later… much later._

"Oh, oh, thank you…" Arthur whispered, "It's my dream, you know… to play the good Doctor someday. It's why I started taking action roles. I've been trying to create the right repertoire of works for it, but after my break, well, I had a spot of trouble, you see, and it's been hard. Doubt I'll ever be a doctor now with _The_ _Mad the Reckless._"

"Nah, I'm sure you will. Someday. _The Mad and the Reckless _isn't such a bad show. Kind of your best work, really, in terms of drama."

Arthur blinked, "have you seen a lot of my work, Alfred?"

"Who? Me?" he waved him off with an uncomfortable smile. "Uh… hey! I should clean… It's late and all so you probably want to sleep."

"I'm actually an insomniac…" Arthur confessed, gripping at the DVD as tight as he could.

Alfred's eyes fell on the soft, long fingers, taking them in with a gulp. "You could… watch the DVD? That way I can just… clean my room or something. You can just stay in there."

"I wouldn't want to put you out…"

"It's cool. I don't mind."

Arthur _friggin' _Kirkland was going to sleep on his _bed!_ On his bed! Of all places! – Too bad Alfred wasn't actually going to be in the same room to see it. But maybe if he was really sneaky he could take a peek or something, not in a creepy way, just to make sure his boss was comfortable… because that's what Hero would do—make sure his guest is safe and comfortable.

"Well, thank you," Arthur smiled again, that bright, dashing, movie-star smile, "thank you, Alfred. Really. That's very nice of you. Maybe you're not such a failure of an assistant after all!"

"Oh hey, thank—hey! I'm an awesome assistant!"

A snort was heard from the small blonde as he turned on his heel to head back to the living room. "Alfred, not even you can actually believe _that_. I don't buy it after your little confession during dinner."

"Just go watch the show," Alfred grumbled, shooing him away before hiding inside his room.

Now, how was he going to hide the giant poster on his wall?—He was going to have to figure that out after he stashed the DVDs in his closet and hid the life-size cardboard figurine. Somehow, he'd manage. It's not like he owned anything else.

Well. Maybe the Arthur Kirkland _Britannia_ CD would also look suspicious. As would the framed concert tickets. He walked over to his desk, his eyes flitting over his computer screen before his eyes widened, and as he scanned the area, he closed the laptop, hugging it under his arm.

_Hmm. Maybe it's time I accept I have a problem?_

Alfred sighed. The stuff wasn't going to hide on its own, after all. He had to get to work.

* * *

><p><strong><em>Meanwhile, somewhere else…<em>**

"Feliciano! _Mais_, what are 'ou doing here? I thought you were still in recovery, cher," Francis gasped, giving the Italian a knowing smile when his eyes settled on his obvious date.

Feliciano jumped, still clinging onto Ludwig's arm for comfort. "Ve~! Ve~! Ludwig, look, look, it's Francis! Hi Francis! We're just walking the park! My therapist said it'd be good for me to start re-entering the real world little by little. But ever since I was attacked, the world has just looked so scary!"

"I imagine, mon cher." Fancis sighed wistfully, bringing out his favorite handkerchief to dab under his eyes at non-existent tears. "I, too, have been reliving that horrible, horrible evening when I was attacked. The Kiss Thief is horrible! 'Ow dare 'e take away ze innocence of lovers everywhere!"

"Ve~! But… Francis… you grabbed the Kiss Thief by the cheeks and tongued him, didn't you?"

Ludwig tugged at Feliciano, his cheeks tinted bright pink as he looked away. "Feliciano, we should go. Already we are late by 45 sekunden. We will be late to the movie."

"Ah, yes! _Mi scusi_, Francis… I will see you tomorrow, yes?"

"Oh, you'll return tomorrow, my darling little Italian?"

"Yes! Buona notte, Francis…!" Feliciano smiled as he was pulled away by Ludwig, who simply murmured his goodbye.

Francis sighed, taking in the cool night air. He looked up at the sky, slipping his handkerchief back into his pocket before smirking. Maybe he could break into the home of a certain thick-browed Englishman. After all, Arthur seemed to enjoy his visit last time.

(Or maybe Francis's definition of enjoy was twisted. After all, when Arthur had walked into his house about a month ago to find Francis wearing nothing and waiting to pounce him as he entered his bedroom, he had immediately hid him with a heavy vase before dialing the police.

The next morning, Francis had awoken at the police station, being happily handcuffed.)

* * *

><p><strong><em>But back at the apartment…<em>**

The sounds of Dr. Who filtered through the apartment as Arthur held the hot cup of coffee in his hand. He figured it was the least he could do after putting his assistant out of a bedroom. So he knocked on the door lightly, and after not receiving an answer for a while, he cleared his throat, twisting the door knob.

"Alfred?"

Alfred had just finished locking his closet when he heard his boss's voice inside his bedroom. He turned around, smiling naturally, "Oh, hey there, boss. Just finished cleaning…"

Arthur looked around the floor and then at the bed, which was rather large and looked extremely comfortable with a mountain of well fluffed pillows. He nodded, extending out the mug of coffee. "I made you some coffee. Since you like it so much…"

"Thanks!" he took the mug, blowing on the steam. "Thought you hated coffee…"

"It's not like I'm allergic to it or something. I just hate the taste." Arthur wrinkled his nose, "And the smell, but least I could do."

"Oh, because of the room? Really don't worry about!"

"Yes, well…" Arthur paused, furrowing his eyebrows as his eyes settled on a wall on the far end of the room. He blinked a few times, "Alfred…"

"Seriously, it's not a problem at all!"

"No, Alfred—"

"Glad to do it. It's totally my duty as a hero…"

"—Why do you have a giant poster of me plastered all over your sodding wall?"

Alfred dropped the coffee, jumping back as the liquid dispersed around his sneakers.

"W—what?"

"There's a poster of me without a shirt on your wall, Alfred…"

"N—no there isn't…"

Arthur rolled his eyes, stomping over to the wall. Along the way, he pushed his assistant back. "It's right here. I'm not blind."

_Oh shit. How could I forget the damn poster?_

"Alfred…?"

Alfred wasn't really sure what happened. All he could remember was a sudden surge of heat curling around his neck, his body, and then he felt like he couldn't breathe for a moment. But that was short-lived. He was pretty sure he fell in a heap to the ground after that.


	4. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: **Do I have to keep putting this up? ^^ I think we all know I do not own Hetalia, but just in case...

**Chapter 3**

_That same night…_

Three hours and a hospital bill later, Alfred F. Jones was tucked inside a hospital room bed with fluffed pillows and pristine sheets the color of untouched snow. The murmur of the beginning of a late-night marathon of Arthur Kirkland movies played softly in the background with the lights from the hanging television flickering softly over the dim room.

A shirtless scene came on the screen, and British star Arthur Kirkland rolled his eyes, reaching for the remote on the bedside table to flip through the channels. _Odd. _Arthur didn't have many shirtless scenes. He had a problem keeping his clothes on stage, but not on the screen.

(There was something different about the screen that shamed him—maybe it was the fact that everything was amplified? Projected?)

How ironic that such a scene would come on just when he was feeling particularly vulnerable and guilty over his assistant's situation.

_All over a poster._

Arthur couldn't help but feel partially responsible. He had, after all, just barged into the room completely uninvited. The poor lad had probably thought he was going to get fired or a beating from the way his bright pupils had dilated before he hit the ground with a double thud—the first slam for his body, the second for his head hitting the open drawer behind him.

"Oi, eyebrows, sorry I'm late," a gloved him touched his shoulder, and he jumped, turning his head around to find his albino manager's red eyes shining over him. Arthur couldn't remember seeing Gilbert so serious before. Well, maybe when it came to signing a contract here and there, but not like this. Dressed in his gray, form-fitting business suit, Gilbert looked like a different man. He even had his hair slicked back, almost as if he had been a teenager primping up for the prom. Slowly, he took off the ear-microphone he used for his blackberry, slipping it into his pocket, "was on my way to an important business meeting…"

"This late in the evening?" Arthur arched an eyebrow.

"If you don't believe me, you can ask Gilbertha. Birdie is just right outside getting you some of your disgusting tea and tipping the guards to keep paparazzi from barging in here through air vents." The albino reached into the inside of his unbuttoned jacket, bringing out a pack of cigarettes. With his other hand, he began to pull off his tie. "I'm warning ya, Kirkland, it's coming out of your paycheck."

"So, translation, you were about to fuck your assistant and I interrupted?" Arthur rolled his eyes, turning his attention back to Alfred. His entire body tensed when the blonde groaned, and a certain bubbling happiness and relieve began to sweep through his stomach. He was about to run to call a nurse when everything eased to a still again.

"_Fick dich_, eyebrows," one of Gilbert's gloved hands—black gloves to protect Gilbert's sensitive skin from the sun, and Arthur felt silly because Gilbert only wore those and his suits on days when he was going to be very busy and unable to return home to change—curled into a fist. The other held a cigarette between his fingers. Already, he was popping the butt between his lips. "Alright, eyebrows, ain't got much time, so go on and tell your awesome manager the truth so I can fix this mess: did you get drunk and try to beat the living shit out of your assistant?"

"No! Blimey—the hell you think I am? Some type of bloody monster?" Arthur huffed, walking over to Gilbert. He flicked the cigarette off his mouth, throwing it into a trashcan. "Git, we're in a hospital. Can't you read the no-smoking signs everywhere?"

"Oi, newsflash, he's passed out. I doubt he'll care if I have a smoke…"

"Yes, well, I'll care," Arthur replied, pursing his lips as he sat down again. His green eyes watched over Alfred's sleeping frame. He cupped his hands together, hiding his face between his sweating palms. "Bloody hell. How do I end up in these messes?"

"How _did_ you get into this mess, eh? Gotta tell the tens of papz waiting out there for ya."

Arthur groaned. "Don't remind me. I should've never walked into his bedroom."

"Woah, bedroom? Easy there, Kirkland, don't tell me we have a possible sexual harassment suit on our hands!"

"Like hell! We most certainly do not!" Arthur humphed, rolling his eyes as he looked away, but a soft shade of pink was already dusting over his cheeks, "I'll remind you that I—_unlike you—_happen to be a gentleman. I consider all my employees as being completely off-limits."

"Good to know that if Jones here got fired, you'd be hitting it…!"

Arthur spluttered, turning around indignantly. "H—hitting it? You disgusting git! Gilbert, come close."

"Nah, I don't think so. I'm comfortable here. 'Sides, I know what you're going to do… You might be a skinny twerp, eyebrows, but you pack a heavy punch," Gilbert chuckled, rubbing his jaw as he took a few steps back. "Seriously, though, bedroom? Spill the _deetz_. I'm your awesome manager! I totally deserve to know!"

"Ugh, you're disgusting. Remind me: why did I hire you again?"

"Because I have so much dirt on you that your career would be over if you fired me?" the other grinned, bringing out his blackberry to skim through his e-mails. "Now, seriously, details?"

"You're shameless, aren't you? There are no details to share other than the fact that I—for some reason—attract creepers AND Alfred F. Jones just so happens to have a wall-sized poster of me shirtless. In his bedroom. Which I entered only because I was bringing him coffee as a thank you for letting me stay the night in his apartment."

Gilbert's eyes widened. "You're not clearing up your name, Mr. Gent. Overnight stay?"

"Did you not hear the creeper part of my statement? The Kissing Thief was wandering the streets. Alfred was kind enough to walk me to his apartment from the restaurant."

"Now there's a restaurant involved?—Don't tell me you two were having dinner."

"It's not what it sounds like! Priya canceled on me and Alfred had both my cellphone and credit card so he came to return them. Least I could do was buy the lad some dinner," he sighed into his arm, combing his blonde hair back with his fingers. There's more to it than that, but Arthur is not about to explain to Gilbert how the sight of his handsome assistant wearing a suit made him decide to invite the lad to dinner. Mostly because it's not something Arthur is proud of, much less something he wants to admit, not even to himself. "What?" he paused, blinking as Gilbert continued to grin, "You don't believe me?—I swear he fainted and I only touched him to try and feel if he was alive."

"Ahem… and?" Gilbert pushed on, his eyes dancing with mischief.

Arthur blushed pink, looking down at his hands, "Along the way I might have _accidentally_ groped him…"

"Ooooh, eyebrows!" Gilbert whistled, laughing. "Ow, ow," he crows, "you erotic ambassador, you!"

"It was an accident, you moron! He moved in my arms as I was trying to carry him to the bed, and he's damn heavy. Probably all those bloody burgers he eats. So I ended up carrying him and touching his arse by mistake. I'm just telling you so you can give full details to my lawyers should Alfred Jones decide to sue me over saving his bloody life."

"Loving the full disclosure, eyebrows. Really. I swear you haven't been this open since our pillow talk days, but I just need to know what to tell the press now. Or, well, what d'ya want me to say?"

Of course. It'd be very much like Gilbert to ask for details and then try to paint him as the pervert.

"Nothing. My assistant had an accident and I brought him in for treatment as any decent, compassionate employer should do."

"And, what should I say happened to Jones?"

"He fainted and hit his head."

"In his bedroom apartment?" Gilbert rolled his eyes, crossing his arms, "And what should I say that you were doing there?"

"Damn it, Gilbert, I pay you for a reason don't I?"

The albino lifted both his palms in defense. "You pay me to be the messenger, eyebrows. That's it. 'Sides, last time I made something up for you, you almost choked me."

"That's because the rumor you spread was far worse than the real thing!"

The other scoffed, looking away, "it was a brilliant cover. You just weren't awesome enough to see it!"

"Saying that I punched Francis in the face because I was so overjoyed he asked me to marry him was _not_ better than just saying I punched him because he is a froggy pervert that can't keep his hands off my arse! People thought I was a bipolar for months!"

"It got you this job, though, didn't it?"

"Only because for some moronic reason, Francis's fans seem to think we'd make a cute couple," Arthur shuddered, embracing himself, "I'm serious, Gilbert. Don't sugarcoat it. No romanticism. My assistant fainted and I so happened to be there to save him. The media doesn't need to know more details than that."

"Works for me," his manager shrugged, walking over to Alfred's bedside to grab the glass of water perched there. He drank it in a few gulps to the indignation of his thick-browed client. "What?"

"THAT was not for YOU!" Arthur huffed, stomping over to Gilbert to take the glass away. "Now I have to ring the nurse to bring him another cup."

"What's wrong with that one?"

Arthur eyed the glass in disgust, "Your germs are all over it. Lord knows where _your _mouth has been."

"You didn't used to be such a drama queen about my mouth back when I used to give you head, Kirkland. Yeah, what now, bitch?"

The Brit smirked, his gaze narrowing, "I'm the bitch? I never took it up the—"

"Ahem," a soft feminine cough interrupted them, and they turned to find Birdie—blonde, soft, pretty Birdie—standing by the door with her hair tucked neatly into a bun. Her heels clicked softly over the ground as she motioned with her head for someone else to step into the room behind her, "Mr. Kirkland, Awesome Mr. Boss Man—"

"I can't believe you have her call you that," Arthur shook his head in shame.

"Hey, don't interrupt my Awesomely Hot Assistant Birdie, eyebrows," Gilbert scoffed.

"Ahem, Awesome Mr. Boss Man, Mr. Kirkland, please," she shook her head, sighing, "this is Mr. Matthew Williams—he says he is a relative of Mr. Jones. His cousin, actually."

"G—Gilbert?" a young blonde with shoulder-length hair squeaks as he steps further into the room, his eyes focused on the albino even as he walks over to Arthur. He's wearing a pair of faded jeans, holding his cellphone tightly in his hand as if he had just received the news of his cousin's concussion.

The way his pupils are dilated makes Arthur think that the poor boy has gone through quite a scare. He's almost dreading having to leave the room to face the crowds outside. It's the perfect scenario for the Kissing Thief to strike.

"Matthew Williams?" Arthur blinked, pursing his lips as he looked up to find a tall, blonde-haired lad that shared a very interesting resemblance to Alfred. He started, extending out his hand in hospitality, "Of course, welcome. I'm glad the hospital was able to contact a family member." He paused, noticing the way his manager has momentarily grown silent. "Do you two know each other?"

Matthew nodded politely, unsure of what to say or do.

"Of course I know him! It's the awesome Mattie!" Gilbert yelled out, pushing Arthur aside as he took in the meek looking young man into his arms, patting his back with blind excitement. "Mattie! I didn't know you were related to Jones!"

"Well," Matthew looked down at the ground, rubbing the sole of his shoe against the checkered floors. Matthew Williams was soft-spoken, polite, certainly not someone Arthur would expect to have a friendship with Gilbert. Though, then again, he couldn't hold that against the young man. He, too, had once fallen for the charm of the so-called _Awesome_ Gilbert. "That's because he always forgets about me…"

"Dude, how could anyone forget you?" Gilbert breathes out, and it makes Arthur feel almost sick because he knows that breathless voice. He never imagined that seeing his not recent _ex_ fawn over someone else would be so awkward. He has to wonder how Birdie is keeping her composure. "I haven't seen you since that wild party at Francis's though! Where have you been hiding?"

"Eh? B—but, you just…"

"At the party," Gilbert finishes for him.

"I mean, I haven't been hiding…" the long-haired blonde replied, tucking his hands into the pocket of his red hoodie. The Canadian flag strikes Arthur as out of place in the room, especially next to someone as All-American as Alfred, but he makes no remarks. "Just trying to take care of business. Things are busy at the book store now that I've expanded it to also offer bike services."

"Mr. Kirkland, your tea," Birdie interrupted, handing him a Styrofoam cup, which Arthur takes, dismissing her with a polite smile. The girl resumed looking at her clipboard, marking off things left and right, and Arthur has to question how someone so cute and truly prepared can work with Gilbert. "Mr. Gilbert has already briefed me. I'll be taking over Mr. Jones's job for tomorrow until a replacement is found."

"You're firing Alfred?" Matthew started, panic obvious in the way his arms flail. "Please don't. Maple! I don't think I could take him moving back in with me!"

Arthur blinked, taking in the sight of the nervous young man. "Ah… well, you see…"

"O'course we're not firing him!" Gilbert's eyes settle on Arthur, a crazy glimmer inside them.

"Well, now, Gilbert—"

"Arthur, a word…?"

_A word?_

He can feel as the albino's gloved hand encircles his arm, tugging him away out of the room and into the hallway, where a few nurses eye him with a few giggles. And he waves politely, trying to pretend that everything is fine. But he knows it isn't because Gilbert has a crazed look in his eyes, and a wild blush overcoming his cheeks, and he can feel his fingers digging into his arm.

"Gilbert, I can't keep Alfred Jones as my assistant. And before you ask, this has nothing to do with what happened in his apartment. He's just a terrible assistant. He doesn't keep my appointments and he has absolutely no experience in the field. For goodness's sakes, the boy is an engineer! Not an assistant! And I'll be damned—"

"Eyebrows, just shuddup and listen, alright? You, uh, remember how you just accused me of being about to get it on with my Sexy-As-Hell Assistant?"

"Yes, yes," Arthur touches the side of his head, feeling the throb of a headache start, "I'm amazed she hasn't sued your arse for sexual harassment with the way you talk about her."

"Are you kidding? She loves it! Totally flattered about me complimenting her Bootylicious Ass… especially since I'm 100% gay!"

"Enough, you disgusting, chauvinistic pig," Arthur sighs, "so what about that? You already denied that, git."

"I know, I know, but thing is… alright, Arthur, you got me. You interrupted me just as I was about to get some sweet Canadian ass."

There were moments in time when Arthur knew he needed to get a new manager. His impotence at having to keep the albino around threatened to give a heart attack more evenings than not. But if he could be thankful for anything, it was that Gilbert rarely bothered him or threw his dirty laundry at him. _This_, though, was like having a pair of _jizzed-in_ boxers thrown at his face.

"Y—You… y—you're shagging with Alfred's cousin?" his voice cracked as the words left his mouth. He repeated the sentence in his head, once, twice, the words coming up again and again like flashing lights: _Gilbert is shagging with Alfred's cousin… _

"Listen to me, eyebrows. I know you and I aren't on best on terms have the time, but I know not even you are such a big cock block that you'd do this to an old pal, right?"

"One, you and I are NOT friends. Two, I fail to see—"

"If you fire Alfred, then he's going to have to move back in with his cousin. And if he does, then the awesome Mattie and I are going to be relegated to trying to hook up behind bookshelves. I know you love books more than _that_ Arthur. C'me on! It's total win-win! Alfred won't sue the pants off you for firing him and—"

"Whoah, whoah! Who said anything about suing?"

"It's obvious, Kirkland," Gilbert winked, "you try explaining to a jury how not only did your boss fire you at a hospital while you were unconscious, but also try explaining to your fans that you completely kicked one of them out on the street. Poster or no poster, that's discrimination!"

"No, it's not! He's a bad assistant! Can't even make a descent cup of tea…"

"So he's tea-challenged!"

"You just want me to keep him around so you don't have to explain to your Canadian that you really have absolutely no bloody chance at being a proper manager and dictating my life, no? Gilbert, you've probably been telling that poor lad nothing but absolute lies!"

Gilbert slammed both his hands over the other's mouth. "Hey, hey! I only told him ONE lie." He paused, writhing uncomfortably under the green steely gaze returned by his client. "Fine, so, more like five, but you owe me!"

"I owe you?"

"Yes. Think of all the times I saved your drunk-ass from being assaulted by Francis!"

"That's your bloody job!"

"What about the time I brought you soup when you were sick and watched old Dr. Who episodes, eh? What about THAT?"

Arthur's eyes widened as he threw his arms in the air. "I can't fucken believe that you're throwing that in my face! One, we were dating at the time, and two, I most certainly repaid you for that one. We had sex on my damned couch! Which you stained, wanker."

"Only because it's kind of hard to focus when someone throws up in your mouth!"

"I told you I was sick!"

"Uh, excuse me, Mr. Kirkland? Awesome Mr. Boss Man?" Birdie interrupted them; peeking at them from the edge of the door with her bright eyes. She really did remind Arthur of a baby chick from time to time. "Mr. Jones is awake. Well, somewhat returning to consciousness, and he seems to be whimpering Mr. Kirkland's name."

Four eyes settled on Arthur, who had grown flushed at Birdie's words.

Gilbert neared him, "how can you fire someone that devoted to ya, huh, eyebrows? I know even you have a heart in there somewhere, even if the stick up your ass kind of supersedes any emotions."

"You're an arse, you know that?" the Brit groaned, pushing Gilbert's face away from his shoulder. He motioned for Birdie to move from the door as he walked back into the hospital room, his bright green eyes settling on the sight of his assistant looking vulnerable as ever, bright blue eyes focused on him. He cleared his throat, "Alfred."

"He's pretty drugged up, Mr. Kirkland," Matthew murmured, nudging his cousin awake.

"B—Boss?"

Arthur nodded, giving him an uncomfortable smile. "Ah, yes, Alfred. Hello. How's your head feeling? You had a nasty little fall earlier."

"Everything's spinning and I keep having this recurring dream that you were in my apartment," the blonde replied, touching the side of his head with a chuckle. He was obviously still dazed, probably doped from all the painkillers. Arthur simply watched him with a calm detachment only betrayed by the concern hiding inside the little sparkle in his green eyes—the little yellow stars that Alfred liked to watch dance whenever Arthur laughed. "Everything's just buzzing."

"Well, I suppose your memory must be fragmented," Arthur rubbed the sole of his shoe against the ground, embarrassed, "I'm truly sorry I simply marched into your room. You really shouldn't have to explain anything to me about your personal life, Alfred. Just because you're my assistant doesn't mean you're not allowed to keep, uh, tasteless giant posters of me."

The little color Alfred had regained left him. "Oh, shit, th—that was real?"

"As real as the fact that I'm afraid I broke your mug when I dropped it to try and carry you to your bed."

"A—and you… cradling my face between your arms telling me all would be okay…?"

"Completely out of place, but I do hope it can be excused as I was waiting in panic for an ambulance."

Gilbert laughed, "you didn't mention THAT one, Kirkland."

"Yes, well," Arthur hummed disapprovingly, "I—I was concerned! Mind you, n-not for Alfred; I was just concerned that I could get in big trouble if the ambulance came and he was dead!"

Matthew gasped, lips quivering.

Alfred's lips broke into a wide smile, though, making him look like a lovesick fool. His neck seemed to be lolling from side to side as Matthew crawled higher up on the bed, trying to lightly slap his cheek to keep him awake, "Were you? Does this mean you're not going t' fire me anymore 'cause I'm such a bad assistant? Cause if you're going to fire me, then I wanna say something to you, Mr. Kirkland…"

Arthur turned to look at Alfred with a sigh. "I _was_, but not anymore. Alfred, you have to listen to me…"

A yawn escaped the blue-eyed blonde as he began to curl towards the warmth of his pillow yet again. "…you're going to fire me anyway, right? So I just wanna say that…" he closed his eyes, head falling against Matthew's chest.

"Lad, I'm not going to fire you."

"…that I think you're damn sexy when you're angry, even with the stick up your…and your ass is tight like a bubble…"

"Like a bubble?" Birdie murmured, turning to her boss with a confused expression painted on the creases in her forehead.

Gilbert couldn't hold in his sobbing laughter. He doubled over. "Bubble butt! Kesesese, that's great! Love that kid!"

Arthur's entire face was bright red as he fumed. "My arse is tight like a bubble? What kind of bloody insult is that?"

"I don't think it was supposed to be one," Matthew shook his head, tucking his cousin in again just as Alfred continued to mutter out more about his undying affection.

"And your eyes are green like grasshoppers."

"Kesesese, that one's even better!"

"…your… your… eyebrows are like chubby caterpillars but…"

"That's it! Hand me that pillow on that sofa chair, Birdie! I'll smother him!"

"No!" she threw her arms around Arthur, pulling him back, "Mr. Kirkland, it's no longer the in thing to be a celebrity in prison! We already explained that the in thing right now is rehab!"

"The in thing is ALWAYS bloody rehab. Hand me that pillow! I'll say it was self-defense!"

"But he's passed out, eyebrows, kesesese!"

"He's murdering my pride!"

"Maple," Matthew squeaked, pressing both hands over his cousin's mouth to keep him from talking in his sleep anymore. "Why is it that even when you're passed out, you cause problems for me, eh?"

"…your voice is like brain brie..."

"Mr. Kirkland, let's go. You can clear this up with Mr. Jones once he is awake," Birdie sighed, pulling him towards the door. "You have an important show tomorrow and last thing you need is for people to think you're hitting the bottle again!"

"Yeah, eyebrows, just think of how much tinier your eyes look without sleep! It's like your eyebrows get huge!"

Arthur was going to reply when Birdie managed to pull him completely out of the room. The door slammed closed, leaving Gilbert to continue laughing and muttering random insults about Arthur. But all that came to an abrupt end when a pillow was thrown at the back of his head with enough strength to make him topple over and hit the floor.

"No making fun of my damsel in distress!" Alfred's voice—muffled and sleepy—was heard throughout the room.

Matthew rolled his eyes, patting his drugged cousin on the head before sighing, "he's gone. Just go back to sleep, Al."

The blonde perked up at the sound of his cousin's voice, turning to look at him with a confused though happy smile, "Oh hiya there, Mattie. When'd ya get here?"

"Are you serious?" Matthew yelled, "I was here when you woke up! Al… Al…! Damn it! I can't even yell at you because you're asleep!"

(Not that the fact his cousin was sleeping kept the upset Canadian from kicking him once—with Gilbert's approval—and throwing spitballs at him—after he had stopped making out with the albino and a nurse had thrown him out of the room—throughout the night.)

* * *

><p><em>And the next day…<em>

Matthew opens another jello cup for his cousin, resting comfortably on a chair next to the bed as both blondes watch the small television hanging from the ceiling. Sometimes Alfred takes excited peeks at the large bouquet of flowers next to his bed, and he keeps poking the stuffed bear on the edge of the bed next to his elbow. Every now and again, he nags for Matthew to read the note again. So Matthew does:

_*crossedout*Dear_*crossedout*_ __Alfred,_

_I hope you're feeling much better this morning. _*crossedout*___I was very worried about you last night._*crossedout* ___Sorry I didn't stay the night, lad, but you know I have a big show today on live television to promote TMTR. _*crossedout*___You should tune in._*crossedout*___ I expect your return to work soon. _

__*crossedout*_Love_*crossedout*__

__*crossedout*_Sincerely_*crossedout*__

__*crossedout*_Best_*crossedout*__

_-Arthur_

"He wrote love first. I should call him on it."

"Not unless you want him to call you out on sexual harassment over half the stupid crap you kept spewing last night."

"What'd I say again?"

"You talked about his ass, Alfred. And then said his eyes reminded you of grasshoppers and other really silly things."

"Done," the disheartened American slammed the empty plastic cup onto the moveable tray in front of him, "Another one."

Matthew rolls his eyes, huffing, "you know, these aren't jello shots. Eating half a box is not going to get you drunk. No matter what, yesterday happened, Alfred."

"Another one!"

"Geesh, okay, I'm just saying that you might want to, oh, I don't know, maybe start by impressing him with your work ethic than with your poetry?"

"I know," the blonde sighs, suddenly looking up with determination, "That's it! I'm just going to have to work harder, Mattie! Show him I'm a great assistant! That I can be a hero! And I'm totally going to need your help for this one!"

Matthew cringes at the way his cousin's blue eyes have regained their lively, characteristic shimmer, and he shivers. "I—I don't know, Al…"

"Oh, c'me on, Mattie! You're the only one who can help me!"

The Canadian bites his bottom lip. "What do you need me to do?"

"Easy…" Alfred grins, whispering in the other's ear.

**Author Note: **Sorry this one was crappy and took so long to get uploaded. I have a puppy at home now and it has been hard to write all I wanted to, but I did want to have something out today. Thank you to all of you that review. You're awesome! I love your commentaries, and I especially love all of you that point out typos that escape me because of some serious sleep deprivation accrued during the previous school semester. I promise that I do know (as does Arthur) that AWESOME is a word. AWERSOMER is not, though, and that typo has been properly fixed.

Thanks, anon, for pointing that out!

Reviews allow Alfred to keep his job. Okay, so he's keeping it anyway, but go on and support a lovesick—ahem, stalker—assistant to fulfill his ultimate fanboy fantasy of dating his favorite singer-actor by hitting that review button! (And make Birdie's job—fem!human!Gilbird—easier, too!)


	5. Chapter 4

**Author Note: This chapter is short. It's also the point where our story /really/ begins!**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia. I just play around with it. **

**Chapter 4**

"Like, welcome to another pinkalicious episode of _In the Pink Room with Feliks_!"

Feliks—the self-proclaimed guru of celebrity talk shows—was a cross-dressing blonde haired Polish male that harbored an unhealthy obsession with pink, judging by both his attempts at getting _pinkalicious_ introduced into mainstream vocabulary and the bright shades of fuchsia decorating his entire set. He was well-known for strutting down a catwalk built into his set, sashaying all the way in heels higher than most supermodels were probably comfortable with wearing and designer dresses. Sometimes he would wear fashionable pantsuits. But rarely did Feliks—except for the one time he had admitted on live television that he was in a relationship with another man—wear male clothing _on television_. He was sure things were different when Feliks was home with Toris, his long-time Lithuanian partner, as well as the executive producer of his show.

Arthur had known Feliks before his years on television.

In fact, he had known Feliks back when the two were struggling college students trying to work and make top grades—Arthur barely making it through his economics classes and tutorials, and Feliks trying to fit in with the media and communications crowd. They had been roommates, bonding over the poor subsidized food in the cafeteria and the collective experience of little sleep, too much caffeine, and not enough alcohol.

(And that one unfortunate time when Feliks had found a stray pony and brought it into their dorm just when Arthur had brought a girl to stay the night.)

Little had changed since then, other than his friend's clothes. Feliks, in Arthur's opinion, was still a badass: only now when he tried to kick someone in the face, he was also flashing them an eyeful of fancy, frilly panties. Alas, there he was, about to go on live television for Feliks' show, and pretend that they didn't know each other—pretend that all the questions had not been pre-screened backstage when Feliks had stopped by the make-up room to gossip with Arthur over new glorified position as the target of the Kissing Thief (and maybe, just maybe a little bit about Arthur's 'like, totally hot assistant—oh my gosh, you need to tap that!' and his impromptu hospital visit.)

"You are all, like, totally not going to be disappointed by the fabulous show we have for all of you today! First, on _Stars with Feliks_, your favorite stars from The Mad and the Wreckless! Woohoo! Later, how to properly cut your shirt into looking fabulous for the summer months, AND we'll even go into the kitchen with—Arthur Kirkland and Feliciano Vargas!" He paused, rolling his eyes, "oh, right, and Francis Bonnefoy…"

Loud claps drowned out whatever sound his scowl was making.

"So then! Let's welcome Arthur Kirkland! Feliciano Vargas! Elizabeta Héderváry! Francis Bonnefoy! The stars from the Mad and the Wreckless everyone!"

Arthur was pushed into the shuffle, walking beside the other stars of the show, and attempting to look sheepish as he was forced to sit next to the annoying French frog. But he kept his cool, crossing one leg over the other and giving a gentlemanly nod in acknowledgement of the many other people now watching the set. Technically, nothing was off-limits, but Arthur knew better. He had the upper-hand, he—

"—Arthur Kirkland, who plays the part of a bisexual male attempting to make a relationship work with the lovely Elizabeta, all while running away from the demons of his past. And, oh my gosh, like it's getting so juicy! The plot-line has so, so, so much going on, makes my head-spin! I was just telling Toris the other day how I'm going through withdrawal. When are the new episodes coming out?"

"Well," Arthur took the question, "now that Feliciano has returned to the set, very soon. Hope—" he stopped, feeling both the way in which a pervy French hand began to squeeze his thigh and hearing the loud whistles and claps of the girls in the audience. His smile grew tense, and he half-lidded his eyes, grabbing Francis' hand and squeezing it so hard that next to him, he could feel the French man beginning to twist in pain. "—fully we won't disappoint."

"Oh, Arthur," Feliks chuckled, eyes fixed on the way in which Arthur released Francis' hand only to then push the limp, probably broken body part away, "you never disappoint. Some spoilers then? What can we expect?"

"Lots of delicious man-on-man action!" Liz declared, nodding confidently, "the Arthur-Francis drama has a while to go still, and we're also bringing in another major character that might just sweep Arthur off his feet—cough—much like a certain American—cough—a Portuguese male. And we can't give more details, but yeah!"

"I beg your pardon?" Arthur chuckled, feeling as if his head was already beginning to pound. "What were you trying to imply there, Lizzie?"

"Oh, nothing, nothing, just that I think we're all curious to know about your assistant," she leaned forward a bit, preening at him with her long eyelashes. Her green-eyes flashed with curiosity. And Arthur was afraid. Really afraid.

"Ah, yes, my… my assistant," Arthur cringed, though Feliks clapped. And then he knew he'd been set-up.

"That's right," Feliks took over, "if you have not been keeping up with the news, like shame on you, viewer because our stud Arthur totally had a super eventful night at the hospital with his sexy-hot assistant Alfred F. Jones. What's the update, Arthur? We're all, like, dying to know."

"Ah, l'amour!" Francis cooed, shifting on his seat. The smirk on his face, though, let Arthur know that he was well-aware of the developments from the night before, and would likely bring it up as much as possible to embarrass him. Maybe even make him look bad with Priya.

"Ve~! Alfred's in the hospital?" Feliciano asked softly, turning to Liz, who simply petted his head, nodding. "Is Alfred going to die? Ve, ve, Arthur, Arthur, you wouldn't let anything bad happen to Alfred, right?"

Arthur twitched, about to make a rash comment when he looked up and saw Birdie crawling on the ground near the camera man, holding up her clipboard as high as she could: 'Remember: Popularity!' – and with that, Arthur knew what he had to do. With a soft sigh, he looked down at his hands before putting on a wistful face, and staring straight at the camera.

"My assistant Alfred F. Jones suffered from a concussion last night and had to be rushed to the hospital, where I stayed with him for a couple of hours. He's a big fan of the show, Feliks, and I am sure he is devastated that he's missed coming to see the set. He always comments about how interesting your pink pony makes theshow. So," he smiled, tipping his head, "Alfred, if you're watching, everyone in team Kirkland miss you lots and we expect a full-recovery soon. Get well soon, lad."

(So maybe that was a lie. So maybe Alfred always made fun of the show, especially the pink pony that Feliks claimed had psychic powers. And maybe it was best Alfred had not joined Arthur this once… maybe things did happen for a reason.)

Elizabeta sniffled, "t—that was so beautiful!"

"Arthur really cares for Alfred, ve?"

"Ah, l'amour!"

"THAT WAS ALL COMPLETELY PLATONIC, YOU GITS!"

"So, then," Feliks wriggled his eyebrows, leaning forward as he interrupted the Brit's outburst, "what were you doing in his apartment last night?"

There was a wave of gossipy whispers that blanketed over the audience.

Arthur faltered, stuttering.

"Oh-la-la! About ze time! I waz concerned for you, mon cher, always walkin' 'round as if you had ze stick up your derrière! _Ah, l'amour_!"

"NO!" Arthur cleared his throat, "no, I mean, it's like this, so, we had dinner and—"

"So, you two went out on a date?" Elizabeta gripped Arthur's arm, "And you didn't tell me?"

"No, no, I was supposed to go out with Priya, but Alfred had my cell phone and she canceled so he met me at the restaurant so I wouldn't think I'd been stood up. Quite nice of the lad, really, but all was purely platonic."

The audience 'aww'ed,' and Arthur's cheek flushed a bright pink.

"Ve~ then why did Arthur go home with Alfie?"

"Sounds like you both really care about each other," Feliks commented, chuckling into his hand, "but you're, like, totes denying you didn't tap that?"

"W—what? Me? Al—I'd never! I'm an absolute gentleman," Arthur coughed into his hand, "I don't, I mean, the opportunity never presented itself; no, I'm wording that incorrectly, I mean to say that it was never an option."

"So if it had been…?" Elizabeta pressed the question, hands twitching with excitement.

"I mean to say that it was never an option in the first place," Arthur tried to curls himself into a ball in his seat. "C—Can we please talk about something else? I'm sure my assistant must be mortified at this moment watching this, probably still in the hospital."

"Arthur cares so very much for _cher Amerique_," Francis added in, trying not to burst out laughing.

"Oh, look at that!" Feliks pointed straight at the camera, "Time for a quick commercial break, but when we return, more pinkalicious gossip with the stars from the Mad and the Reckless! Snaps everyone!"

Arthur simply hid his face between his palms, groaning. So much for damage control.

_After the show…_

Birdie pushed through the crowd of fans and camera man trying to snap a few shots of Arthur back-stage. He simply tried to remain calm, hiding his face deeper into the lapels of his coat until he could barely make out the flash of any cameras. The two of them began to make their way through the thicket of people.

"Hey boss!"

Arthur looked up immediately, "Alfred?"

Alfred nodded, giving his boss a lop-sided, happy grin, standing in front of him in a nice, pressed black suit. His hair was slicked back, much like the night before, and he had even shined a black pair of loafers, probably for comfort, but a definite improvement from the usual sneakers he used to wear with everything. Arthur was truly surprised—he had thought Alfred would still be back in the hospital, but no, he was right there, in front of him, giving him a sheepish little smile as he held his work binder in one arm, his other arm in a cast. If Arthur had admitted the previous night that Alfred could clean up well, right now he could admit that he felt a certain level of warmth graze over his cheeks, probably his ego politely reminding him that maybe Feliks was right and Alfred was hot. And very much into him. Oh, yes, into him enough to have a poster of him half-clothed on his wall.

Did Alfred talk to the poster? Do _things_ while staring at it late at night—what was he thinking?

"W—what happened to your arm?" Arthur gulped, feeling as Birdie began to push him forward. Alfred simply followed, walking slowly next to Arthur. "Your head's alright, yes?"

"Yeah, my head's fine, boss! Just, seems like when they were carrying me out'a the house or something, I think paramedics might have let my arm bump against a wall—hard."

Arthur looked away, feeling guilty. "Ah, that was probably my fault. I carried you onto a taxi. You were irresponsive, and the paramedics were taking so long. I just figured you'd be lighter than you looked, but I suppose I was mistaken."

"No biggie. Anyway, I saw the show: that—that shout-out was nice."

Alfred's cheeks were dusted a light pink.

"Ah, I'm glad you didn't die from embarrassment. I thought I was about to, but I'm afraid that's impossible."

"Yeah, it kinda is," Alfred nodded, "so listen, boss, I know about your rule—"

"Don't mention it."

"Okay, boss. But see—"

"Please, don't mention the poster, the CDs, the movies, the coffee mug, honestly, don't mention it." Arthur cleared his throat, "I—I'm going to trust you, Alfred Jones. You're a good kid, coming here from the hospital and looking the true part of an assistant. I know you need the money, and I need a personal bartender that doesn't ask any questions, and can readjust my schedule based on the number of shots I—"

"Uh, boss…"

"Alfred. I've told you many times it is incredibly rude to interrupt."

"No, boss, look out!"

Alfred pushed Arthur back, making him fall flat on his back. The Brit winced, slowly beginning to lean on his elbows to find that his assistant was in a lip-lock with a mysterious looking stranger, dressed all in black. He blinked, barely reacting before he shuffled to his feet and pulled Alfred back. The poor dazed blonde looked like he'd been tongued into silence. And, almost immediately, the Kiss-Thief came to a simple conclusion: he had tongued the wrong man.

Arthur wasn't sure what he had gotten himself into. He'd simply meant to save his assistant from the grasps of some pervert out of thanks for his quick-thinking, but now that he was facing the Kiss-Thief, he wasn't sure what to do other than gulp internally and curl his hand into fist, almost ready to punch the black-clad figure if he so much as he flinched, much less lurched at him.

Cameras continued to flash, and he could hear, tiny voices, squeaky high, rough and tactless, calling into phones, calling for a hot-of-the-press release or an instant e-mail update or a tweet: 'Arthur Kirkland's lover and assistant just saved him from the Kiss Thief!' and 'Kirkland's reaction was immediate – punching the Kiss Thief in the face!' or 'Kiss Thief to sue Kirkland for physical violence…'

Only then did Arthur feel a palm cradle his fist and he looked next to him to find Alfred looking very serious, pushing his fist down.

He had punched the Kiss Thief.

Later he would see the footage, save in the comfort of Alfred's apartment again, with Birdie guarding the door from the paparazzi, waiting for Gilbert to show up.

He would see himself fall to the ground, Alfred being pulled forward into a kiss by the Kiss-Thief…

(Why did the kiss look odd? It looked, from a certain angle, like a closed-mouth kiss, barely lips touching, maybe even not touching at all. But maybe Arthur was jolted, maybe he didn't want to think about it anymore, think about his poor assistant getting mauled into a kiss, his back arching, toes curling. Alfred had looked so jolted, almost catatonic. He was almost tempted to focus only on the way the Kiss Thief's lips brushed over Alfred's on the screen, but he didn't. He simply sat on the sofa, hands curling into fists.)

And then, then what he saw he didn't recognize. He had pulled Alfred back, curled his hand into a fist, and hit the Kiss Thief right on the chin. The punch hadn't been enough to make the Kiss Thief pass out, but it had been enough to make him scatter away into the crowd, running from the scene.

No one had caught the Kiss Thief in their shock that Arthur Kirkland—gentleman and playboy—had punched anyone, especially for his assistant, now being dubbed his lover.

"Here boss," Alfred handed him a hot cup of tea, sitting next to him again.

Arthur looked at the mug, blinking in surprise when he saw his face smiling up at him.

Alfred flushed pink, "they came in a set of four. And I haven't had time to do the dishes…"

"It's fine," Arthur took a short sip from the mug, "needs a bit of milk, but it's fine."

"Hmm," Alfred hummed, turning his attention back to the television. "So, uh, boss?"

"Yes, Alfred?"

"Thanks. You know, for standing up for me. I didn't expect that."

Arthur smirked, "yes, well, don't get used to it." He quickly turned somber, "I'm sorry that happened to you, lad. You shouldn't have jumped in front of me."

"Oh, it wasn't too bad," Alfred shrugged, "he's a pretty good kisser, actually, so it wasn't, you know, that bad."

Birdie stared at them, smiling into her hand. "Alright, gentleman, I think that's enough television for now. Perhaps, though, we should tune in to the Kiss-Thief's website?"

"I don't know if that's appropriate right now," Arthur replied, hands shaking. "Alfred's probably still in shock."

Alfred shrugged, grabbing for his laptop. "Gotta do it eventually right? Better now than later, I say."

Arthur gulped, letting out a shaky breathe when he saw the video. Birdie blinked. Alfred simply growled, almost tempted to x out of the website.

**Kiss-Thief Video #11: Hit me, baby, one more time!**

"So you think you're one smooth operator, huh, sexy brows? Didn't know you were taken. How about we call 2 rounds of 3? – This is far from over.

Oh, and, tell your little assistant that his lips taste like hamburger. Not even Ronald McDonald kisses like that. Nasty!"

"T—That… agalmatophiliac! He's molested Ronald McDonald! I can't forgive him!"

"Alfred, that's the least of our problems here!"

Alfred paused, "our problems?"

"Well, you're not just going to let him kiss me, are you?—I saved you!"

"After I saved you, boss, we're totally even."

Arthur's eyes widened, "A—Alfred…"

Alfred smirked, winking, "just kidding boss. I'll always be your hero," and with that, he let his arm fall over the other's shoulders, bringing him close to his body.

Arthur frowned, pouting as he tried to elbow his assistant away, "..you'?"

"Uh," Alfred laughed nervously, releasing his boss. "Sorry. Got a little excited there."


End file.
